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The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. But it is my fault. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. When, by slow and toilsome efforts, he had arrived midway, something obstructed his further progress. “Any choice as to which of the Halls? You can pick and choose, you know. “For Heaven’s sake, no,” she answered quickly. But, go and see who it is, love. You can borrow any of my outfits anytime, you know. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her.
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